Not An Angel
by Fantome
Summary: Season two, episode three spoilers. Sherlock made a point of saying he was not angel on the rooftop. Some supposition about what that meant and how Sherlock planned for the fall. Dark!Sherlock. Complete.


Sherlock looked into pale eyes not unlike his own and wondered for an instant exactly whom this was supposed to fool. The originally Gallic nose had clearly been corrected to Roman proportions by rhinoplasty, and the jawline indicated a higher level of testosterone. The figure had dieted rigorously to match Sherlock's body mass index. The skin pigmentation was at least five percent darker from sun exposure, indicating winters spent in southern Europe. The hair did match (dyed two shades darker about three weeks ago, in need of touch up). Sherlock saw a flash of the kidnapper carting in a copy of the Sun, saying, "I want a haircut like the boffin's."

Disgust filled him, and he couldn't resist the urge to kick the figure in the side of its head. Surely it wouldn't show in the end (Stupid! The sole of a shoe is like a passport: London soil and bits of grit embedded in the skin. An amateur would make that mistake. Why does he keep letting it get personal?) after all else this body was about to go through. It groaned, wiped spittle ineffectively on the concrete floor, hands presently taped to its sides.

Naturally it carried much less brain power, but that wasn't visible skin deep—perhaps by the crease between the eyes, a sign of a state of permanent confusion. Doubtless this man was not chosen for any particular skill, merely a superficial resemblance between the two of them. The mouth began to curve in a smile, and Sherlock resisted the urge to stove the smug face in. Wait, was this what he looked like when he- No, no time for doubt.

This man had kidnapped children and fed them sweets laced with mercury. (Mercury, thimerosol, vaccines, autism, oh how those ignorant people annoyed him. God damn that Mycroft, who must have told, damn his queen and country.) Were it the kidnapper's own idea, Sherlock might have a hint of respect for him, resemblance not withstanding. No, it was Moriarty's, and how did Moriarty command such a following to mindlessly obey him, when Sherlock had to drag the the Met behind him with every step? Was it merely the money? Even Mycroft had superiors to report to ("Come work for us, Sherlock. Surely you'd appreciate a better standard of living.") and was not entirely a law into himself. Still bitter about Bond Air. Well, Sherlock had a way with corpses too.

"I've been holding onto this for some time," Sherlock said, taking the capsule out of the prescription bottle he had stolen (confiscated) from John sixteen months ago. "I don't anticipate it will come to the attention of your employer, with where you'll end up, but if it did... let's say he'd appreciate the reference." It was the pill he had taken from the cabbie Jefferson Hope, slipped into his pocket, the gelatin he had almost tasted with his tongue (not bored anymore, dear god, the sheer empty boredom of his earlier years before he found his purpose, track marks on his skin), covering the cyanide inside. "Are you thirsty?"

The body on the floor managed to spit at Sherlock's shoe, barely five milliliters, rather devoid of mucus (lips cracked, eyes dull, significantly dehydrated). Sherlock hadn't fed it either these fifty-five hours (oh yes, he does go places John doesn't know about), insuring low glucose levels. Most people ate far too often. The face twisted and growled a bit weakly, "You sick freak."

Sherlock gave the sternum a swift kick, and spoke in a clipped tone. "Exactly what did you think would happen to you? You've served your purpose for Moriarty. You should be _grateful_ that you can continue to be of use."

The figure curled around itself.

"This is getting tedious." He snapped on a pair of bright blue nitrile gloves, opening the pill with care. His double groaned and attempted to thrash. Sherlock planted the heel of his shoe on its forehead, tilting the skull back against the ground and opening the mouth and airway. "There." He copied John's reassuring grin. "You'll feel better in no time."

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the powder with his breath and poured it on the back of the figure's throat, following it with a little water when the gagging commenced. He knelt next to the figure, clamping the jaw shut, stubble and folds of skin pressing between his fingers (eight years old: whiskers of mangy cat in the woods, broken neck). Its breathing grew shallow and rapid. (Inhibition of cytochrome c oxidase, highly efficient.) The body seized twice (note bruise to the right side of the temple at hairline). Sherlock rested his fingers against the carotid artery, sensing the coolness of the concrete just beginning to sink into the skin.

He felt his hand drop to his own wrist, pulse a bit fast, respiration rapid. Why were his fingers trembling? He closed his eyes and felt a squirming sensation in the back of his mind, then a brief sense of falling wash over him and pass through him. Someone wouldn't approve—John, but then John never did and it wouldn't matter much longer. He sank back on his feet and pushed the noise in his mind down to the level of static.

He sighed and clapped his hands together. "You should choose your employers more carefully. Well, you work for me now, and you will prove quite useful indeed."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and shrugged off his coat. "I duplicated my wardrobe for this contingency last year, made certain it had plenty of wear. What you have on simply won't do." The woven scarf was off (solid blue, medium grade wool, overall 24 microns fineness, worse in one section of the warp, from a sweatshop in China: Guangdong province). Moriarty would have spent the money on cashmere (properly dehaired, fifteen microns or less was all Sherlock could bear on his neck). The coat was a blatant knockoff. This corpse had an expense account but had skimmed it. (He flashed to the moment he had captured the duplicate: pupils dilated, hands trembling, lining of the nose irritated: cocaine. Pity there was none left over.) The body double had the forensic foresight to already be wearing the correct shoes when it left the tracks in the linseed oil at the school, and while Anderson notices nothing, Sherlock could already see the whole future Moriarty had laid out before him.

He steepled his own fingers (nails cut more frequently on the left hand to aid in violin fingering, hand cream clearly superior to the kidnapper's, purchased by Mrs. Hudson last Christmas from the new shop two blocks away that would be out of business by summer) and stepped around the body, evaluating it a last time before closing this case. If he could look past all the imperfections, no more than a dozen noticeable to the average tiny mind, if he could see past them to what the body would become, then there was Sherlock, dead on the floor of the warehouse.

Curious how he lacked the cold rage he felt when defending Mrs. Hudson or the thrill of rescuing Irene. He became aware that he needed someone to reflect off of (genius needs an audience), and while this corpse was a mirror, it was a dull one indeed. Where was the sense of satisfaction? If only this were Moriarty. What disappointment Sherlock had felt when the Baskerville drug hadn't been in the sugar- he could have served it to Moriarty in his tea-_-and make him feel fear_-when he had the audacity to show up in his flat uninvited.

How he'd imagined chaining Moriarty up in the basement (Carl Powers' shoes), something slower than botulism eating away at him. Sherlock would peel away his skin layer by layer, dissect his brain to see their differences. Even Molly would understand, after Jim had made a fool of her. Lestrade could convict him of an artistic crime, rather than a bungled kidnapping. Mrs. Hudson would tsk and say, "What a mess." And John- John, the crack shot army doctor...

John would say, "Not good" and shake his head-

A brilliant image of John crumpling in disappointment (running out, Sarah's lilo unavailable) brought him out of his pleasant reverie and to the reality of what was about to happen. His world tilted and his blood roared in his ears. (John grieving for Sherlock, becoming small again, a limp, a tremor.) He would text—no, call John, tell him he was sorry and to move on. That's what people say. John would be okay, could take care of himself. Surely John would appreciate the complexities of this plan when it was revealed to him.

It was not as if Sherlock hadn't already imagined a fall (track marks on his skin, filthy bed, crawling skin, screaming mind). Before he'd met John, he'd already tried everything to silence the noise in his head, to erase himself and failed. All the newspapers, the Met said he deserved this. It wasn't a complete shock. (People move on.)

He began to unbind the body, to wipe away the marks, to make the prearranged phone calls.

It was not a crime to kill oneself.


End file.
